


Gleipnir

by flightofwonder



Series: and he will swallow the sun [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bruce Banner Has Issues, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Canon Divergence - Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Gen, Medical Torture, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Telepathic Bond, at least he has a dog now, who will bite hands for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 12:07:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightofwonder/pseuds/flightofwonder
Summary: “I threw myself to the wolves, only to learn of the tenderness in their howl, and the loyalty in their blood.” - Isra Al-Thibeh.





	Gleipnir

**Author's Note:**

> It will be pretty difficult to understand what's going on here without reading my previous fic, Ván. This takes place some time after that fic, in an alternate reality where Ragnarok was successfully stopped, but Thanos is still a looming threat.
> 
> Please, heed the tags for warnings.

There were many technicalities that Bruce still had to learn about this new situation he found himself in, but perhaps the hardest part of sharing a telepathic link with an ancient wolf that was supposed to end the world was simply the fact that Bruce could no longer hide.

Not physically, though walking around on earth with a black wolf by his side definitely wasn’t inconspicuous. No, the problem was that Bruce no longer had the luxury of hiding from himself.

He knew Fenrir was the same. Both of their respective traumas spilled over into one another, no matter how they tried. They were linked to one another; they stained one another with pasts where happy memories were few and far between.

When Fenrir chewed on the thin scars on his legs until they were raw and bleeding and only Hulk could force him to stop, Bruce knew why. When he howled and howled like a dying creature when the lights went out in his room on the Asgardian carrier, Bruce knew why.

And when Bruce pushed himself into the furthest corner of an unfamiliar laboratory as a luminescent hologram appeared in the next room, Fenrir knew why, too.

_I could kill him._

The thought was so achingly familiar as it echoed in his mind, but it wasn’t his own thought he heard. This was how the wolf spoke to him, and only to him. But it didn’t change the fact that it was a thought Hulk had shared with him many times before.

Green eyes glowed back at him, the imposing black wolf with his matted fur and razor sharp teeth, the mythical creature that could grow to the size of cities and never stop growing. The wolf that could swallow the sun. All that ancient fury, contained and entrapped for thousands of years, ready to erupt. Ready to destroy. On Bruce Banner’s behalf.

_He’s not really here._

It was a reminder to himself as much as it was a dissuasion for Fenrir’s restless energy. Ross wasn’t physically here. But Ross was the Secretary of fucking State. Ross had the funding and resources and permission to imprison supers on a raft on international waters. Ross had everything he’d ever told Bruce he’d get. Ross was —

 _I could still kill him._ Broad shoulders were hunched and taut, hackles raised, and his low growls were powerful enough to vibrate the glass beakers and vials that barricaded them. Every indication of an animal that was a threat, a danger. Not to Bruce, never to Bruce; he knew this like he knew that there was air in his lungs, a simple scientific fact, now. But anybody else, Fenrir could kill.

But Hulk was dangerous, too, and the Hulk was never enough to stop Ross. He buried him under wave after wave of sedatives and let him drown, never dead, but in perpetual paralysis. Useless. Helpless.

_I am not Hulk. He is powerful, but I am quick. And I know how to hunt._

And Hulk roared inside him,  _let him, let him, let him rip that monster apart!_

And Jesus fucking Christ, if Bruce could breathe instead of panting and shaking and freezing like a deer in the headlights –

(except he knew he was breathing because he also knew how it felt not to breathe, to have mercury pumped into his veins and his precious lungs removed and preserved and studied and  _not in his chest anymore_ )

– it would be less difficult to tell Fenrir no, to be reasonable and rational and human. But  _Ross_  and  _human_ were antonyms, and at the moment, it was very difficult to reconcile his own humanity with how he felt when he heard Rhodey say the words ‘Secretary Ross’.

Fenrir’s growls were louder now, almost loud enough to get them caught by the enemy if Rhodey wasn’t distracting them, but Bruce couldn’t get it together enough to tell him to keep quiet,  _keep quiet, or papa will hear_ , and now the fucking mythical wolf was pacing the laminated floor, every inch the predator, ready to strike at nothing at all, all because Bruce couldn’t keep these stupid memories inside as he shook himself apart. Fenrir's memories were heavy enough to carry on his own; he deserved better than the weight of Bruce's memories added to them.

Because Fenrir was exposed, too, _like a nerve, it’s a nightmare_. In a panic, he bit his scars and screamed in the dark because of one thousand and five hundred years of entrapment. It was something Bruce and his human mind couldn’t comprehend, so Fenrir hid it as best he could. But pieces still slipped through.

It was just a ribbon that chained Fenrir to a rock for all that time. Something as tiny and pitiful as that. A joke at his expense; a sentence given by the gods. Here is the great wolf Fenrir, destined to destroy the world. See how a sliver of red cloth binds him.

(Bruce’s chains weren’t nearly as beautiful, but they dug in deep and left scars just the same. Fenrir ripped himself apart to try and get rid of those scars; Bruce didn’t have that luxury.)

Odin and Tyr and Ross and Brian, a line of high judges who all made the same verdict.

_For the crime of existence, I sentence you to an eternal imprisonment, to rot and bleed, and to never die._

_We sentence you because it is right._

_We punish you because we_ can.

Ross was just the last in a line of men who decided Bruce wasn’t human enough to be spared the consideration of not being tortured alive.

But Bruce could repay the favor. Fenrir could destroy his iron gates and security drones with just the stomp of his foot and pick Ross up between his teeth like he was a twig. They could remind him that for all the power he lorded over Bruce’s life in the past, for every time he sneered and told Bruce that he was no more than government property, that Ross owned him, that Ross was his God – he was still flesh and blood and bone.

He could remind him by letting Fenrir eviscerate him and eat him alive like the ordinary wolves did, by pulling apart his perfectly surgically dissected skin and pushing his gloved hands through his chest and worming around inside for the fun of it, to make his scream because he _could_ , and he could pull out his vulnerable, ordinary lungs and make Ross watch while he did it, and see how he liked it. He could make Ross realize how very, very human he was.

_No._

_Thanos,_ he reminded them both.  _We are here for Thanos_.

The confusion and despair that Fenrir emitted washed over Bruce’s mind like a wave, and his growls dissipated into low whines. All those decades locked away, and he still didn’t know how to not be helpless. Either suffer or enact suffering; this was all he ever knew. Just like the Hulk.

But…but.  _Hulk_ was the one who proved the exception of Fenrir’s point of view, not Bruce.

Hulk had saved Fenrir with, of all things, kindness. And if Bruce killed Ross, it would be Bruce who set him back on the course of violence, not the Hulk. Not the amalgamation of everything he once thought were the worst parts of him — just Bruce Banner.

So no, he would not get his vengeance. He would stay in the corner of an unlit laboratory, cowering like a kicked dog, like a child. And he would shake and cry and remember. Helpless.

But he wasn’t alone. There was a wet nose pressed to his face and a warm tongue lapping up his tears, eager to chase away the dark thoughts that bounced between them. Fenrir was creature that was not made for kindness. And yet, he seemed to have an endless reserve of gentleness for this one man.

Bruce didn’t understand how he earned this, and knew it was more than he deserved. But right now, he wouldn’t try to hide from it. He was selfish and weak, he knew. But he was also afraid. And Fenrir was here.

_What do I do?_

_Stay. Just stay._

So Bruce buried his head in Fenrir’s fur, surrounded himself in that dark warmth, hung on tight, and cried. He cried in his rage, his fear and his despair.

And the wolf stayed.


End file.
